As mentioned here, last Tuesday I had my first ever crash at DISC. Recovery hasn't been the funnest thing ever, let me tell you. There's aching, there are weird stabbing pains and there is the stinging sensation you get when your jeans get stuck to your scabs (on that topic - and simultaneously as a digression - last time I had copious amounts of broken skin hidden under my jeans random dogs on the street would come up and lick my legs. I had no idea why until I figured out that the dogs could taste the blood seeping through. It was all of a sudden significantly less cute. Make no mistake: if dogs could eat you they would). There have been, however, lighter sides, including this exchange with my new physiotherapist:
"Brendan, what do you do for a job?"
"I'm a schoolteacher. Why do you ask?"
"Because I thought that maybe you were a model. You have that look about you."
"Ah, you're flattering me."
"No, really, you're gorgeous."
On my return visit, a week later, she told me that even though my face was handsome, I would never be a knee model. Scars, lumps and bruised cartilage have ensured that.